


Boy Scout Rules

by lazarov



Series: Other People [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Brakebills (The Magicians), Consent is Sexy, F/M, M/M, Margo Hanson fucking hates the word 'throuple', Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Romance, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-04 21:33:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21204419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarov/pseuds/lazarov
Summary: Margo, Eliot and Quentin play a game.Or: Margo thinks love is bullshit, and she isn't going down without a fight.





	1. Prelude.

**Author's Note:**

> hello, I am back, hello. 
> 
> expect this to be in my usual style: a jumble of scenes, a series of small conversations, and _lots_ of sex.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo wants to play a game.

* * *

It’s late spring: that terrible part of the semester where classes are coming to a close, finals are approaching, and there’s not much to do except hibernate in the Cottage, begrudgingly make an effort to study, and procrastinate by getting idiotic-drunk. The latter is how they’ve been winding down most evenings—scattered around the parlour, murdering bottle-after-bottle of nebbiolo in cold blood.

It starts with a question: 

“What have you always wanted to do, but haven’t yet?”

“_Oh my_,” says Eliot, his voice syrupy and his vowels all drawn-out. He takes a long drag of his cigarette and leans back in his chair, the fingers of his free hand drumming against the leather-clad armrest of the club chair. “This sounds like a fun game, Bambi.”

“Well”—she bats her eyes at him, her tone affectionately caustic—“I know how much you love drinking games, and I don’t fuck with Parcheesi.”

“Like, bucket-list stuff? Skydiving or seeing the Grand Canyon or whatever?” Quentin is sprawled on the floor in front of the fireplace. His head is propped up on a throw pillow, his legs akimbo, with a glass of wine dangling precariously between his fingers. “I’ve always wanted to go to Stonehenge, what about you guys?”

Catching sight of the soft, wet part of the inner curve of his lips, she immediately wants his mouth wrapped around her, suckling at her clit.

There’s an obnoxious number first-years milling around the Cottage; drinking the good whiskey without permission, playing chess on the window seat like they think anyone gives a fuck that they’re intellectuals (_everyone here is_ _MIT material__, _ thinks Margo, _ you’re not special_). One of the particularly annoying ones, a blandly pretty girl named Sarah or Sasha or who-gives-a-fuck, is laughing too loudly, and Margo is half-prepared to sic an indoor-voice spell on her. Even Penny is in the corner, staring furiously at a textbook. _Penny does the readings, who knew_? 

Anyway, Margo doesn’t give a shit about any of them, within earshot or not, when she says: “No, baby, not like that—more like, _ tell me all the ways you’re dying to get fucked_.” 

There’s a wheezing sound from the floor as Quentin nearly fumbles his wine—“_Margo_,” he hisses, “there are _ people_.” Pleased with herself, she winks at Eliot: _ My list is long, how ‘bout yours?_

He winks back at her: _Absolutely interminable_. 

The amusement in his eyes belies the hunger on his face, just visible in the flickering firelight, and he stifles his smirk with a sip of cognac before Quentin can catch sight of it.

* * *


	2. One.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo wants to rim Quentin. She is absolutely not falling in love with him, though.

* * *

“Ever been rimmed, Coldwater?”

His eyes only go wide for a millisecond before narrowing playfully: “Yes—but not by _ you_, so I think we can put it on the list.”

“Cheeky.” Margo smiles. She holds out her hand so he can shake it: “You’re on.”

They’re probably all going to fail their exams and spend the rest of their lives in ejected-from-Brakebills shame and poverty because fucking each others’ brains out in new and creative ways takes immediate precedent.

_ Oh well_.

* * *

“Please,” Quentin groans, pressing backward against Margo’s hand and—_god, he’s beautiful_. She loves it most when he mewls like a needy kitten. Margo continues to circle him slowly, the pad of her thumb lubed-up only enough to keep the right level of friction against the sensitive skin of his hole. 

She’s not about to give in to his whining, but he’s awfully persuasive when his voice cracks and his cheeks are all flushed like that—_darkest pink_, with his hair pasted against his forehead and the tip of his tongue barely sneaking out of his mouth—

“You’re going to have to ask prettier than that, puppy.” Margo leans down to kiss the soft spot above the cleft of his ass. The kiss turns into a bite, and Quentin hisses air between his clenched teeth. The twin muscles running along his spine twitch in response—the sight of it makes Margo grin against his skin. She squeezes against the unfulfilled need building deep in her pussy. “Don’t forget to use your word if you need to.”

“Did I fucking say stop?” Quentin growls, dipping his hips to grind his cock against the mattress.

Margo doles out one sharp spank, her palm connecting solidly with the meat of his ass and he jumps a little, making a strangled little sound that might’ve been words if he’d had any brain energy left to dedicate to forming them with his mouth. She figures all the little guinea pig wheels in his head are going max speed just trying to keep his cock from exploding all over his own belly. Her thumb doesn’t miss a beat. “No,” Margo says pensively, “I suppose you didn’t.”

Tiny beads of sweat dot Quentin’s spine, catching the candlelight all sorts of different ways as he takes a few laboured, whimpering breaths. Gathering himself. Her beautiful little disco ball.

“_Margo_,” says Quentin—_o__h fuck_, _ my kryptonite_, she thinks, and her kryptonite is really just her own name tumbling out of his panting, desperate mouth, which she knows seems vain but really it’s almost nothing to do with her own name and more (everything) to do with _ that _ mouth—he arches his back again, more insistently this time, and asks—_begs _her: “Please?”

_ What a good boy. _She lets out a hot, held breath against his wet skin before dragging the flat of her tongue across him—“_Fuck_,” he chokes, and with one hand braced against his back and the other gripping the back of Quentin’s left thigh, she feels his muscles clench as he forces himself not to buck (too hard) under her mouth.

She lets go of his thigh to wrap her fingers around his cock, keeping pace with the rhythm of her tongue as she rubs and rolls it against him, his hole twitching every time his cock pulses in her hand, and it’s hardly thirty seconds before he’s crying out—_Margo, I’m gonna_—and spilling, hot and heavy over her hand, his come dripping onto her freshly-laundered bedsheets.

Margo gives him one last, long swipe with her tongue before sitting back and swiping her clean hand over her mouth. Spent, Quentin’s elbows collapse under him. He rolls onto his side, carefully avoiding the wet spot. There’s a beautiful red mark still glowing where she smacked him, and her core aches at the sight of it.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Coldwater.”

_Pleasure doing business with you, Coldwater_—it sounded cute in her head, but she regrets it the moment it leaves her mouth. This isn’t business. Fuck, she couldn’t make this anything but personal if she tried.

And by god, she is trying.

* * *

It’s better just to keep this thing between the three of them strictly limited to sex, with a tightly-reined-in dash of affectionate friendship on the side. That way, the boundaries stay sharp and neat and easy to navigate, and Margo leaves herself free to cut and run at the first sign of danger, like a doe dropping her newborn young as bait so she can make a clean getaway.

Just _ thinking _ the word 'throuple' makes Margo feel like a caged animal. It makes vomit rise in her throat and cortisol pump in her veins. There is just no goddamn way that shit would ever happen, not when she and Eliot have promised each other that this is just sex, and no matter how mindfuckingly beautiful Quentin’s lips look when they’re coated in Eliot’s spit and begging for Margo to suck him deeper.

* * *


	3. Two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot wants Quentin to fuck him, and Margo is definitely not falling in love with Quentin.

* * *

“Have you ever—?” Eliot asks-without-asking, as if hoping the meaningful expression on his face will do the heavy lifting on this one.

It’s a pointless question, anyhow: it wouldn’t matter if Q was the most experienced rough-rider this side of Brokeback Mountain or if he was a cloistered virgin. Either way, he’d let Quentin do just about anything to him without a second thought.

“No.” At the gently amused and maybe-a-little-intrigued look on Eliot’s face, Quentin stutters, a bit defensively: “I mean—obviously, the receiving part, yeah—_ duh_, you were—you’ve _ been _ there—but not, uh, the other part.” He grins a little, wrinkling his nose, and adds: “But I’ve had reasonably analogous experience and I consider myself a _ very _ quick study.”

“Well,” murmurs Eliot. “You’ve sold me, Coldwater.”

“I’ve sold you?” Quentin scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You’re the one who asked,” he says, reaching one hand out to slide it, teasingly, up the inside of Eliot’s thigh. “Who says you get to reverse the burden of proof,” he inches further, until his hot palm drapes itself over Eliot’s hardening cock, thumb gently kneading at the sensitive base, “and make it _ my job _ to convince _ you _ how badly you want me to sink my cock so deep inside of you you forget what year it is?”

“Fuck.” Eliot pants and reaches for Quentin’s face, dragging his thumb against Quentin’s swollen and sucked-on bottom lip. His other hand covers Quentin’s as a counterweight: he tilts his hips up, grinding against the heat of Quentin’s palm—_fuck, you’re so, goddamnit. _ Eliot lets out a soft groan. He tugs Quentin closer for a kiss before pulling back: “Whatever, consider me convinced.”

* * *

“Are you going to let him come inside of you?”

It’s one of those weird, exceptionally hot late-spring days that feels like it's heralding the oncoming global warming apocalypse. There’s nothing for Margo and Eliot do about it except submit to the blistering sun and spread out on a magnificently large velvet blanket, their survival raft in the middle of the Sea. A sweating pitcher of red wine sangria, bursting with beautiful, fragrant chunks of oranges and shiny blackberries, and a crystal bowl piled with chilled grapes sit between them as their only rations as they entertain themselves with idle conversation.

“Honestly?” Eliot blows out a long breath, his expression shielded by the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses. “I spend more time thinking about Quentin Coldwater coming inside of me than I spend not thinking about Quentin Coldwater coming inside of me.”

Even in the near-unbearable heat, Eliot looks like he is surrounded by a personal bubble of air-conditioning. Margo wonders if it’s thanks to a microclimate spell he’s neglected to share with her, or whether it’s naturally just part of his whole fucking aesthetic. Either way, she feels like a cherry popsicle dropped on a hot sidewalk: a sticky, melting disaster.

“Ha,” Margo snorts. She pops a grape into her mouth and chews contemplatively, before adding, more earnestly than either of them dares acknowledge: “But also, like—_same _.”

Eliot makes a thoughtful humming noise and rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand. “Who have we become?”

Margo presses a grape to his lips instead of answering. Smiling curiously at her for just a moment—she can't tell if it reaches his eyes—Eliot tilts his head back and opens his mouth to receive it, playfully gnashing at her fingers with his teeth.

* * *

Boy Scout rules apply to this whole thing.

It’s not something they’ve ever worried about with previous conquests. Before, use ‘em and lose ‘em was practically a matter of course. In two years at Brakebills, they’ve already left an impressive number of emotionally-traumatized sexual prizes—_ahem, partners_—in their wake. 

(It's for this reason Eliot and Margo quickly learned not to fuck the Psychic students, no matter how curvy or how six-foot-four they are. A passive-aggressive _ eat a dick, cumdumpster _needling into your brain when you’re just trying to fucking study gets old quick.)

While they've never given much thought to sexual diplomacy before, this one’s different. Quentin actually matters.

No matter how this ends, Margo and Eliot are damn well going to leave him better than they found him.

* * *

“You have to tell me if I’m hurting you,” Quentin warns, and Eliot nods, rolling his eyes a little. He’s putting on a brave face, but from the way Eliot keeps positioning and repositioning his hips and fussing with his hair it’s clear that he’s barely keeping his cool.

Margo doesn’t get to witness Nervous Eliot very often. It makes her curiously wet.

“I will,” Eliot assures him, clearly lying. Margo doesn’t blame him: Q’s a little skittish, and Eliot’s not willing to risk spooking him and jeopardizing this moment for a little fleeting pain. “Stop killing my buzz with your Worried Face,” he adds, not unkindly—but not exactly joking, either.

This is the first time in a long time that, to Margo’s knowledge, Eliot’s let anyone fuck him. And while it’s true that it’s been a hot minute since someone’s come along that Eliot might’ve deemed _ worth it_, she suspects the primary reason is that the whole thing is too touchy-feely vulnerable for his tastes. 

Letting someone inside of you is a big deal.

She wonders if Q knows what a privilege this is. 

From the worried crinkle in his forehead, and the way he keeps quietly muttering to himself—_uhm, uhhh, okay— _as he carefully preps Eliot, she suspects that he does. 

“I’m not kidding.” Quentin slowly strokes Eliot, his fingers all slicked-up from the lube he’s just slid up the length of his own (beautiful and now-glossy) cock and massaged against Eliot’s entrance. “I want to do this right.”

It’s ridiculously sweet, and Margo can tell Eliot simultaneously hates it and is dick-explodingly turned-on by it. “He might be playing virgin right now, but I assure you Eliot _ knows _ how to take a—” 

“Margo,” Eliot interrupts sweetly, “I will gag you.” Margo is stretched alongside Eliot with her head resting on his bicep. His hand gently cups the back of her head, and Eliot pulls her closer to kiss her on the forehead. “I’ve wanted this for a long time,” he murmurs, looking Quentin in the eye. “I trust you.”

Quentin makes a face, like, _ should you? _but he nods, placing a bracing hand on Eliot’s hipbone. Eliot is splayed backward on the bed, his head resting on a pillow and his knees falling open to the sides. His cock lays half-hard against his stomach.

“Easy tiger,” murmurs Eliot as Quentin lines himself up—

“Tell me what you—”

“I will. Just don’t move, okay?”

Quentin nods. He keeps one hand wrapped around the base of his own cock, keeping himself lined up and just-barely pressing against Eliot’s entrance.

“Don’t move.” Eliot repeats. He closes his eyes and palms his cock, stroking it almost absentmindedly. A long second passes. Eliot’s breathing finds a slow, steady pace, and a flush spreads across his skin. He grows harder under his own touch, willing himself to relax. Stimulating himself into compliance.

Then—gently, in an almost imperceptibly tiny movement—he rocks his hips downward, and the swollen head of Quentin’s cock stretches him open—just this side of _ too big, too much_—and slips past the tight threshold of his ass. 

A tiny _ fuck _ escapes Quentin’s lips. He wants more contact, more of the velvet slick of _ being inside of him, finally, finally _and he starts to move—

Eliot’s hand leaves his cock to grip Quentin’s waist. “One second, baby, one second.”

“You okay?” Q chews on his bottom lip, stock-still. _ Such a good boy_.

“Ha,” says Eliot flatly, instead of—_ow_. His right eye twitches a little as he takes a deep breath. Adjusting. He lets go of Quentin to bring his hand back to his cock and starts stroking himself. The lube helps, and it doesn’t take long before he’s hardening again, in earnest this time. The tense muscles in his jaw soften, and he seems to melt into the mattress. “Okay. Yeah, all good. Go—”

“But—”

“—_more_,” Eliot breathes, a shiver in his voice. Goosebumps have broken out over his forearms. His hands fly up: one wraps itself around the back of Quentin’s neck while the other reaches for Quentin’s ass—he kisses him fiercely, urging Quentin’s hips closer with grasping fingers.

Quentin doesn’t need to be asked twice.

With Eliot’s hips rising to meet him, Quentin slowly buries the entire length of himself in Eliot and opens his mouth wider, their tongues clashing as he swallows Eliot’s moan. Margo watches, rapt, in macro-close-up, Eliot’s fingers still tangled in her hair—without warning, he pulls her into the kiss, and she tastes Eliot’s gasp as Q’s hips pick up speed.

It’s more delicious than Black Forest cake, or a mint julep on the hottest day of July, and she wants to eat Eliot’s pleasure whole.

* * *


	4. Three.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot is a bad liar, and Margo absolutely, utterly refuses to fall in love with Quentin.

* * *

Out for dinner in the city—as friends, or rather, as foreplay—Quentin’s fingers brush her thigh, dancing boldly under the hem of her skirt. 

Leaning closer, he brushes her hair behind her ear and murmurs, his breath hot with wine, “You know, we should do this more often, the three of us, together, _ getting out of Brakebills and_—y’know, like, _ dates_?” and his eyes are so wanting and hopeful, glancing between Margo’s and Eliot’s faces, looking for assent or approval or— 

“Quentin,” Margo says softly, pushing his hand away as kindly as she’s able. She doesn’t miss the frown Eliot shoots her over the top of his wine glass as he takes a sip of his Morgon. “How’s your monkfish?” she asks, indecorously changing the subject. She hates that her tone is apologetic.

Refined carbohydrates; that one beautiful first year with the dumb, innocent face and the pillowy, perma-moist lips and the incredible rack; total world domination_—_she practically gets off on her ability to deny herself the things she so desperately wants. 

She’s not so sure she can hold out much longer when it comes to Q, but she’s sure as hell not going down without a fight.

* * *

The next morning, a little hungover and dry-mouthed, she wakes to find Eliot with his reading glasses on, a book propped up in his sheet-swathed lap and Quentin nestled in the crook of his arm, reading along, both whisper-laughing to each other. It’s so intimate, so sweet, that Margo feels her cheeks flush and a rush of guilt for having witnessed it without permission. It’s so domestic, so... couple-y. 

She lays frozen with her eyes pressed shut, willing them not to notice she’s awake and silently convincing herself that she doesn’t want_—_that. Margo’s not totally sure what it would even be called. Polyamory? A triceratops? A fuckin’ throuple? She hates every part of the whole goddamn concept; it’s too messy, and too full of the potential for unnecessary drama. 

(And sure, they love a little drama, but mostly only when it happens to other people.)

But then Q says her name, so sweetly and so happily, and Eliot sets his book down to brush a strand of hair from her face—“Morning, Bambi.”—and, _ oh_: her heart hurts. She lets Quentin kiss her good morning while, under the duvet, she squeezes her hands into fists, her fingernails digging into the meat of her palms: _ You are not falling in love, you stupid bitch. Get it together. _

* * *

These unwanted feelings require reconnaissance, so Margo bides her time for a torturous few days until a small break between classes presents itself and she spots Eliot all the way across the Sea, smoking a cigarette under a massive oak tree. 

She stalks toward him, her heels catching in the earth, still soft and dew-wet in the early morning sun. It makes her gait particularly inelegant and Margo doesn’t miss the affectionate smirk that passes across Eliot’s face, partially obscured by the shade of the tree.

“Hey you,” she says casually, leaning against the trunk beside him. The bark digs into her arm through the delicate knit of her cashmere sweater but, overcome with relief at the fact that she finally has Eliot cornered, she can hardly bring herself to give a solitary shit about the risk of pulls. Eliot proffers the cigarette, and she gratefully plucks it from between his long fingers: “Thanks, boo.”

“You okay?” Eliot asks warily. He reaches out to stroke her hair and she leans into his touch. It’s the kind of unprompted physical touch would be grounds for murder coming from almost anyone else, but Eliot’s always had _ carte blanche _ to touch her like this; plus, she’s immeasurably glad for how grounding it is in this moment. It helps her to steel herself and work up the balls to have the conversation she’s here to have.

She takes a drag of his cigarette and hands it back with a breezy smirk. “Why do you ask?”

“Figured I ought to check on your mental health since you’re getting wood slivers and moss in your new Valentino cardigan.” He shoots a glance down at her feet and grimaces sympathetically: “And fertilizer in your Manolos.”

“Ha.” She barks a laugh. “Well, fuck. Read me like an open book, why don’t you.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Eliot asks sideways.

“Maybe.” Margo clears her throat. “Yeah. Yes. Look, I don’t mean to be completely disgusting,” she sighs, flitting a glance at Eliot’s face to gauge his reaction. He raises an eyebrow, curious about whatever’s about to come next, but lets her continue without interrupting. “But, I think I might kind of love him. Quentin, I mean. You know?”

“Yeah—I know,” says Eliot, pulling very likely the same face he’d make if he were asked to eat a live grub, Bear Grylls-style. “Same.” 

They process the moment in tandem: _ Are we going soft? Are we no longer a couple of hardened, cum-weathered sex heathens? _

“I’m just saying,” Margo adds, not totally sure why she feels unable to keep her fucking mouth shut or at least get to the goddamned point, “I think I would, like, die for the kid.”

“Gross,” says Eliot. He considers it. “But also, same.”

“And the only reason I’m saying any of this out loud is because, El," Margo grabs his arm, her black-lacquered fingernails pressing insistently into his skin through the fabric of his sleeve, “we’re going to look this shared delusion square in the eye, and then we’re going to snap out of it. We’re not going to fuck up our friendship for some dick,” Margo clarifies, a little too sharply. It’s a warning, and it’s obvious that Eliot receives it loud and clear from the way he straightens his spine and gets wiggly under her gaze. For emphasis, she adds: _ “_Margo and Eliot against the world.”

Eliot looks away, fidgeting with his pocketwatch. Distantly, he nods: “Yeah, no, totally. Against the world, together. Always.” He checks the time, before snapping his watch closed and tossing it back in his pocket. “I gotta go, Bambi—late for Planetary Studies.” He kisses her on the forehead and gives her back the smoldering butt of the cigarette, then plods off toward the towering dome of the astronomy building. 

Margo stays behind, grumpily smoking the last of the cigarette:_ Motherfuck. _

* * *

“Tell me how good my cock feels,” Quentin says, lips pressed against Eliot’s ear, cruelly dragging himself nearly all the way out of him, the edge of the swell of the head of his cock putting pressure against his entrance from the inside, just-threatening at the threshold to stretch him achingly open and slip out.

It’s a game within a game, and Margo is riveted: Eliot squeezes his eyes shut and his mouth parts at the sensation, intense and everything-all-at-once, and—_fuck_, the sight of him, loose-jointed and so beautiful, more vulnerable than she’s ever seen him. Even right down to the tips of his toes: clenching and unclenching. A moan slips out and Eliot tries to wiggle himself back down onto Quentin’s cock—trying to fuck himself on Quentin’s shaft without having to give in to Q’s demands.

“Uh-uh,” Quentin chides, snaking a hand up underneath Eliot’s jaw and wrapping his hand firmly-carefully around his throat, holding him in place so he can’t slide even a millimetre further down to bury himself on his cock without permission. Dragging his teeth along Eliot’s jaw, he asks again: “Come on, Eliot. Tell me how much you want my cock.”

“You fucking _ fuck—_” There’s no witty comeback lined up, no _ fuck you, go fuck yourself you suddenly-overconfident little floppy-haired motherfucker _ ready in the holster. Eliot’s usually-filthy mouth comes up empty, and Margo is certain that she can see the way Eliot is squeezing himself desperately around Quentin’s shaft before he finally gives in and chokes out, half growl: “Fuck me. Just fuck me, please Q JesusfuckingChrist, fuck me.”

And Quentin does: slowly, at first, but picking up speed fast. Eliot slaps a hand over his own mouth to keep himself from crying out, but from this close up Margo can still hear the muffled words creeping out of his throat with every thrust: 

_ please Q please yes right there yes yes y e s_—

* * *

Since this whole thing began a few months ago, the differences that have emerged in Q are astonishing. Now, (mostly) gone is his self-conscious shoulder hunch; he’s (mostly) stopped keeping his head tilted forward, using his hair as a shield to protect himself from the outside world’s judgment. He stands up straighter, speaks up more readily. There’s this beautiful rosy glow to his (beautiful fucking) face—which, sure, might belie the fact that he’s getting fucked real good on the regular, but which also seems a hell of a lot like happiness.

It’s like he _ likes _ himself more, now. 

_ More. _ Margo considers the word. _ Has Q ever liked himself before_? It’s not like she or El are about to give themselves credit for fixing Quentin Coldwater—_G__od no_. That’s not something sex—or even magic, for that matter—has the power to do.. 

(A memory hits her: _ All you need is a good deep dicking, Margo Hanson. Then you’ll loosen up_. Some fucker at the bar who recognized her from Intro to Feminist Theory—classic, probably thought he was such a nice guy. He was pointing his finger in her face, swaying on his feet, his breath soured by beer. When he got too close and drunkenly tried to aim a kiss on her mouth, she kneed him in the groin and spat on the back of his head when he doubled over: _ Maybe you’re right—too bad yours is inverted now, huh?_) 

Neither sex nor a good deep-dicking can fix the depression that—every once in a while, when his brain decides to go all Keith Moon and destroy the place like a cheap hotel room—drags him down toward the floor like a lead weight wrapped around his heart. At the very, _ very _ least though, it seems like being _ wanted _ —really, truly wanted—_and, God, they want, Margo wants, him so badly, all the time, _well: the strongest conclusion Margo’s willing to draw based on the empirical evidence before her is that being wanted looks real fuckin’ good on Quentin Coldwater.

He wears it proudly, like a schoolboy in a new suit, with the same lack of surety mixed with beaming delight.

Over the last six months—_Jesus fucking Christ, that’s how long this has been going on?— _a thought began to take shape in her mind, with every new glimpse of him: animatedly talking over breakfast with his hair still mussed-up from the night before; vulnerable but keen, mouth shiny-beautiful between Margo’s legs; gasping for air after a fierce orgasm, Eliot’s hand still loosely wrapped ‘round his throat; asleep, tucked between them, the anxious frown on his face (finally) calming.

Each one a puzzle piece combining to form the ultimate realization: _Oh God,_ _I love him so fucking much._

And then: _ Well, fuck_. _ Goddamn fucking—fuck. _

* * *


	5. Four.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin wants to feel safe; Margo lets go.

* * *

“So.” Quentin makes a face, like he’s already talking himself out of it before the words have even had a chance to come out of his mouth, and Margo wants to put a hand on his knee to comfort him but knows, at the same time, that a big part of this whole game is to give Quentin the opportunity to speak for himself—to get his shit together and advocate for his own needs. 

“_So_,” Quentin starts again. He clears his throat and looks Margo, then Eliot, in the eye, purposefully, only a little bit rehearsed, “I have this kind of weird and specific thing.” _Don’t we all_, interjects Eliot wistfully. “And I don’t think I even can properly explain why? It’s just a thing I need, sometimes, and—”

“Hold your horses, Q. You never, ever need to explain yourself to us,” Margo says. Her voice is firmer than she intends, but it is _ really fucking important _ that he understands. “I just want to get that out there before you get any wrong ideas about this whole thing. You never have to explain the things you want, or the things you need. Okay?” 

She raises her eyebrows at him, waiting: this is a question that requires verbal confirmation.

“Okay,” says Quentin.

“Good.” She leans forward to kiss him on the mouth, while Eliot presses a kiss against the curve of muscle between Quentin’s neck and his shoulder. “Sorry for interrupting, please continue.”

“I, uh—okay, so.” Quentin folds his arms across his chest and glares at his feet while he quickly forces the words out in a jittery stream: “Occasionally, when my brain is being a lot? I just need to be held down. Not, like, bondage, but like?—body weight pressing down on top of my body, so I can’t move and I feel safe and it’s just like—I’m being taken care of and I can just let go and forget about myself?” Even though they’ve just confirmed that no explanation is necessary, Margo can tell he’s fidgeting with the need to explain _ why _ and she just nods as he continues: “I don’t consider myself passive, and usually I like to be in control—but sometimes I need to, you know, _ not be_. If that makes sense.”

_ Oh, _ thinks Margo; a little bit of a sad ache tugs at her, but also— _ we can give him this_. Quentin is asking for a thing, and they can provide it. And isn’t this what it’s all about, each of them drawing the secret thing they need out of each other, without shame and when they most need it? “During sex?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says quietly. “During sex.”

“What kind of sex do you want while you’re being held down?”

Eliot clears his throat, and Margo tries not to be obvious about the glance she shoots toward his groin: he’s rock hard, and when Q turns his head to look at Eliot, his cheeks slightly flushed from embarrassment, she sees the way Eliot's cock jumps under his trousers. “Do you want me—in you? Holding you down?”

“Yes,” Quentin breathes: “I would like that very much.”

* * *

Margo wakes up, blinking in the darkness. For a moment, the room is so pitch black that she can’t tell whether her eyes are open or closed. Eventually they adjust, and she realizes that Quentin’s eyes are open, too.

He’s laying on his back, tucked between herself and Eliot, staring at the ceiling. Margo shifts a little, and he turns to look at her. “Can’t sleep?” he whispers.

“No,” Margo whispers back, placing a hand on his warm chest. She twirls his chest hair lazily between her fingers. “Have you been awake for a long time?”

She feels Quentin shrug. 

They lay, listening to the sound of Eliot snoring softly and the katydids singing outside. Neither says anything for a long time, long enough that Margo thinks Quentin might’ve fallen back asleep, until: “Margo?”

“Yeah, puppy?”

Another quiet stretch passes again, before Quentin murmurs: “If you and El are just… if this is just sex? I can deal with that. I just want you to be honest with me.” He turns his head to look squarely at her, the corner of his mouth twitching into a slight _don't-worry-about-it _smile, then kisses her on the temple before settling back into the pillows. With his eyes already closed, he adds with an air of finality, “Don't worry, Margo. You don’t have to treat me like glass, and you don’t owe me anything.”

* * *

“We could make it work. You know we could.”

“Eliot,” Margo warns. Betrayal stirs in her belly but she ignores it, desperate to keep her cool and give him the benefit of the doubt. She’s smart, she can navigate her way out of the path of destruction Eliot’s trying to lead them towards. _ He’s dickmatized_, she reasons, _ it happens to the best of us. _

“Don’t ‘Eliot’ me. Why can’t we talk about it? Why let a little fear of the unknown stifle something that could be so good, and so honest and—”

“We’re not discussing this.” It’s meant to be a full-stop but she adds, voice softer this time: “I love you and I’m not willing to risk the good thing that you and I have.” Her throat feels tight. Tears sting the corners of her eyes but she balls her hands into fists by her sides and refuses to wipe them away lest Eliot see her weakness. 

The words are there, within her grasp: _I’m not willing to risk what we have, El, even though I want it too. I want it with every bone, hell, every last fucking cell in my body. But it scares the everloving shit out of me. What if you start loving him and stop loving me? _

But she can’t say them, so instead she stands with a defiant tilt to her jaw and her eyes begging him to understand, and Eliot pulls her to his chest: “We promised each other that we would never let anything or anyone get between us, and I wouldn’t break that promise for the world.” He kisses her hair. “First and foremost, I’m yours.”

“Fucking better be,” Margo grumble-laughs through her tears, doing her best not to smear mascara on the lapel of his wool jacket. She feels silly and embarrassed, and she jabs him in the ribs. “Me too, you know.”

“I know. But Bambi—” He gently grasps her shoulders and takes a half-step back so he can look her in her bleary, tear-rimmed eyes, and his expression is kind, maybe even apologetic, and she wonders, _ why is he still talking, didn’t we just sort this out, haven’t I won? _“What about what Q wants?”

For a long moment she doesn’t respond, until: “Fuck you, El.” 

Eliot’s face remains soft and open. It’s his ace in the hole and he knows it: he knows how much she fucking loves Quentin. Of course he does, because it’s a poorly-hidden secret at this point, and because Eliot loves him too. 

(It’s also a particularly manipulative thing for him to say considering the fact that Q’s mental health is always at the forefront of her mind. Truthfully: it keeps her up at night.)

_ What does Quentin want? _ It’s the one thing that makes her resolve crumble whenever they talk about it; whenever Margo sets a hard line about keeping things squared-off into feelings-free fucking that Eliot doesn’t—_can’t_—agree with. Not anymore. Because they both already know what Quentin wants. Just like they know Quentin would (will) let them string him along forever rather than ever telling them what he really wants (needs). Because, otherwise, they might reject him. 

And he might not survive that. 

The bitter truth of the whole fucking thing is that Margo would walk to the ends of the earth—would bleed herself dry, for any god of Vengeance or Fate demanding ritual sacrifice—just to give Quentin what he needs. 

“Quentin loves us. We love Quentin. Why can’t we just lean into a good thing?”

“You’re right,” she says suddenly; finally. The words don’t taste bad coming out of her mouth—it’s how she knows she means it. She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes: “You’re right.”

* * *

The air is warm, made warmer by the glow of the tobacco-scented candles Eliot has scattered over every surface in his bedroom. It makes the space feel small and safe: as though the boundaries of the universe extends only as far as the edges of Eliot’s bed, and everything outside of it has ceased to exist. 

Quentin is on his stomach, naked and beautiful and already panting. Eliot presses a kiss to the nape of his neck, then reaches for Quentin’s hands, gently drawing them back to bind both of his arms behind him. “Like this?” he murmurs.

Quentin nods against the mattress; it makes a soft rustling sound. “Yeah—but I want you to hold me down. Your weight on mine.”

Immediately, Margo understands: this isn’t S&M, or some kind of dominance fetish. In the same way the room feels safer when it’s shrunken down to just their bodies moving together on Eliot’s layers of Egyptian cotton sheets, with only the delicious feeling of their skin sliding on each others’ skin to focus on—just like that, when Eliot’s body is pinning him down, Quentin can finally give himself over to someone else’s control and just let go.

Quentin’s usually at the mercy of his own too-fast too-much brain. Watching his face, Margo can often see the way Q’s own inner monologue tortures him; a little wince every time he says something out loud, or every time he moves inelegantly in bed 

(Margo always wants to remind him: _ sex is messy and stupid, you don’t have to look like a ballet dancer when you’re just trying to get fucked_.)

With Eliot’s body covering his, holding him still and completely taking over, Quentin is able to close his eyes and just _ feel_, like he’s rendered immobile and invisible and inhuman; all that’s left is the feeling of Eliot’s cock stroking against sensitive nerves and the inevitability of turning himself over to pleasure. 

Quentin’s hair falls over his eyes, only his gasping mouth still visible to her, and Eliot’s hovers close to Quentin’s ear, whispering things that are too quiet for Margo to hear. She’s so riveted by the expression on Quentin’s face that she doesn’t even realize that Eliot’s begun sliding himself into him until Quentin’s mouth stretches wider, silently gasping against the sensation.

She’s not sure how she’s supposed to fit into this scene; so, instead she watches their bodies move together in the candlelight: it is sweet, and it is tender. _ This is a thing that is good, and this is a thing that can work_. Then, she leaves them: slipping away from the bed and wraps her robe around herself, shutting the bedroom door quietly behind her and padding down to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

Standing alone, barefoot on the ice-cold kitchen floor, she realizes that she’s not afraid anymore. Maybe she deserves this good thing; maybe, for once, she should allow herself have it.

* * *


	6. Five.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo wants to feel complete; Eliot and Quentin are happy to oblige.

* * *

“Rimming Q wasn’t, like, your be-all-end-all was it, Bambi?”

Margo throws her head back and laughs, “God, no.” At the uncomfortable look on Quentin’s face, she adds: “No offence, boo. It was amazing, and I loved every second of it.”

Quentin’s ears go red. She stands up to pour herself another glass of wine, not bothering to offer either of them a top-up.

“So what’s your thing then?”

“My thing?”

“What do you want in your heart-of-hearts?”

“That’s easy.”

“Is it?” prods Quentin.

“Oh, yes.” Margo throws back her wine and sets the empty glass down as punctuation. “You’re both going to fuck me at the same time.”

“Jesus Christ,” says Quentin—“Huh,” says Eliot, thoughtfully.

* * *

It takes a little while for everyone to manoeuvre into position:

Eliot half-sits, half-lays against the headboard with a small mountain of pillows stuffed under his shoulder blades. He’s at enough of an incline that Margo is able to straddle his lap in reverse, her ass in his lap and her back nestled against his chest as his hands massage her breasts–his long, pale fingers so gentle and confident.

She exhales a long breath, then checks: “Everyone still on board?”

Eliot noses against her neck and presses a kiss to her shoulder: “Yes.”

“_Yes_.” Quentin is kneeling in front of them on the mattress, between their legs, taking in the sight in front of him: Eliot’s hard cock curving up under Margo’s ass and brushing between the gently parted lips of her pussy. 

Q’s mouth is still shiny-wet from his hard work going between Eliot’s cock and Margo’s cunt—taking advantage of their close proximity in this position, he’d dived in like a starving man: tongue probing inside Margo’s core, lips wrapping themselves around Eliot’s shaft, sucking him deep and getting him ready.

Now, Margo slicks two fingers between her folds and strokes her clit, slow and circular, keeping herself loose and relaxed. Quentin’s mouth’s already brought her near the edge—she wants to keep herself near the precipice, dangling and ready to let go.

“What about—are you—”

Margo cuts him off: “I’ve had five glasses of wine and I’m ready to rock.”

“Right,” Quentin nods, rubbing his palms on his thighs. “Okay.”

“C’mere puppy,” says Margo. Q tilts his head questioningly, and she explains, a gentle hand reaching out to touch his cheek, “I want your cock in my mouth.” Q makes a sound like he’s just had all of the air knocked out of his lungs. Margo can’t see his face at this angle, but she’s pretty sure she can hear the smile that crosses Eliot’s lips. 

Quentin stands up and comes closer, bracing one hand on the headboard as he moves his groin near her and—_oh, god fucking fuck Margo— _she sucks him into her mouth, her tongue slicking itself up the underside of his cock, twirling against the soft spot where the head meets the shaft. With one hand, Margo strokes the base of his cock, before letting go to press and knead at the soft patch of skin behind Q’s balls.

She lets him slip from her mouth and Eliot leans up to greedily take his turn. 

While Eliot takes Q in his mouth, wetly swallowing him down, Margo takes the opportunity to stroke Eliot—he makes a small moan around Q’s cock, then another as Margo lifts her hips to line up just the right angle and—"_Margo_," Eliot groans, muffled, as the tip of his cock slips past the tight ring of muscle at the entrance of her ass. 

The sensation is overwhelming: thick and hot, stretching her open with a burn that’s familiar and new, all at once—she’s never had Eliot inside of her before, and it’s _ intense _, physically and emotionally.

“Keep sucking that beautiful dick, baby,” Margo murmurs, only a little shakily, as she begins to fuck herself on Eliot’s cock. Supporting her weight with one hand planted on the mattress, she uses the other to tease her clit with her middle finger, bringing herself back to the edge with slow strokes, her gaze glued to the unbelievable sight of Eliot—_right there, inside of her, oh god_, and Quentin must be watching, too—she realizes that his view must be even better than hers, hovering over them with his cock down Eliot’s throat, when Q gasps: “_El—I don’t know how much longer”— _and pulls himself suddenly from El’s mouth.

“That’s okay, puppy, I don’t know how much longer I can last either.” 

Eliot takes her earlobe between his teeth and nibbles on it before whispering: _same_. She laughs; it turns into a low groan as Eliot’s cock flexes inside of her. She pauses her slow gyrations, squeezing to hold El inside of her, and beckons: “C’mere, Q.”

Obediently, Quentin moves into position in front of them. He reaches out to stroke the soft skin on the inside of Margo’s thigh with wobbly fingertips; she wants to give him a treat, and so Margo opens her legs wide, so that Quentin can get a better look at Eliot’s thick, slicked-up cock filling her up.

Q drags a hand over his panting mouth—_You’re so_, he begins to say, mouth dry, _ you’re so, you’re both so fucking_—”Slide your cock into me,” Margo orders, and she can tell that her choice of words nearly makes Quentin twitch and come over his own hand but he holds it together, pressing the swollen, leaking head of his cock against her pussy, “Come on, Q, give me—”

Her breath catches; he fills her up before she can finish her sentence: _ Come on, Q. Give me everything. _

Margo has never ached like this in her life, and—and it’s everything.

She fills full, and complete, and maybe it’s cheesy and sentimental and maybe there’s some terrible, _ truly fucking terrible_, metaphor to be made about the emptiness in her heart being patched up by having these two beautiful fucking people—who mean more to her than anything else in this broken, meaningless world, who would do anything to protect her; these men for whom she can be her truest, most defenceless self—quite literally filling her up and holding her safe in their hands.

Quentin’s hands are wrapped loosely around her thighs, and Eliot’s palms her breast, his other arm curled protectively around her torso, pressing her to his body. He doesn’t move his hips; he just holds himself inside of her, holds her close and safe, until Q starts to—

“_Oh my god_,” Eliot mutters, as Quentin starts to move.

* * *

When Margo was eleven, she read _ Fillory and Further _ and wished that she could be Jane Chatwin—independent and full of vigour and moxie, a young girl who would never roll over and take anyone’s shit. When she was fourteen, she read _ The Princess Bride _ and swore that she would never be Buttercup. Never, ever would she allow herself to exist only to love someone else. Anyway, William Goldman was mocking Buttercup, wasn’t he? She wasn’t a protagonist, she was a warning. Buttercup was vapid and simple, which Margo refused to be. 

If anyone, Margo wanted to be Inigo Montoya, to fight for vengeance and not love. Loyalty, not naïveté. 

Now, she plucks the soft-worn paperback from her private bookshelf and flips through the pages, trying to find a passage she only barely remembers:

> _ I will be quiet for you or sing for you, or if you are hungry, let me bring you food, or if you have thirst and nothing will quench it but Arabian wine, I will go to Araby, even though it is across the world, and bring a bottle back for your lunch. Anything there is that I can do for you, I will do for you; anything there is that I cannot do, I will learn to do. _

It rings like a bell inside her heart. _ This_, she thinks, _ is what it means, huh_? She had never felt love the way the classics talked about it—secretly, she thought that she wasn’t able to feel it at all. She suspected that trying to feel romantic love was pointless and impossible, like trying to see in ultraviolet. Romance didn’t make sense and seemed so performative and hollow, like a conspiracy cooked up to make sure humans continued to procreate and populate the earth and buy cheeseburgers from McDonalds. But _this, _the overwhelming desire to give everything to someone else, was something she understood.

> _ My mind begs you to ask it something so it can obey. Do you want me to follow you for the rest of your days? I will do that. Do you want me to crawl? I will crawl. _

She would give everything for Eliot and Quentin, she realizes. This is her version of love. She hopes they understand.

* * *


	7. End.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo, Quentin and Eliot find a very good thing.

* * *

“We should go out,” Margo announces. 

“Christ,” murmurs Eliot, taking her in: “Look at you. You’re divine.”

She twirls for him, letting the ocean of tiny sequins that dot her Saint Laurent dress like stars in the night sky glitter in the dim candlelight of Eliot’s bedroom.

“You’re beautiful,” Quentin agrees, and Margo moves closer to where he’s perched on Eliot’s divan, gazing up at her reverently. She climbs into his lap, letting her dress ruck up over her hips as she straddles him: pressing herself against his cock, Margo feels Quentin’s body rise to meet her. 

“Okay then,” she murmurs in his ear, casting a sideways glance at Eliot, “does that mean you’re going to take a girl out on the town or what?”

* * *

They still haven’t worked out the details of how this works—are they two planets revolving around Quentin, or are they revolving romantically around each other, too? It’s not clear. Margo and Eliot are in no rush to figure it out.

_ Why overthink a very good thing, when you could just be happy and have that good thing? _

* * *

It’s very, very late and the West Village bar is loud and packed, glowing with art-deco neon and shining tin ceilings. Margo swirls the last of her mezcal in its glass and downs it, before taking Quentin’s face in her hands and kissing him softly, taking her time. Savouring it. 

Her eyes are closed, but she feels Eliot slide up behind Quentin at the bartop and press himself against him; the three of them sway slowly together, nearly dancing. Eliot kisses her fingers, still on Quentin’s cheek, before dropping his head to carefully place a line of kisses up the back of Quentin’s neck, nosing against the tangle of hair at his nape.

“Let’s stay like this for a while,” whispers Quentin; he reaches one hand behind him to pull Eliot closer to him. The other caresses Margo’s lower back. “Just for a while, if that’s OK.”

“As long as you want.” Margo kisses him again.

“Forever, even,” adds Eliot, pressing another kiss behind Quentin’s ear. And then Eliot takes a chance, catching Margo’s attention by tucking her hair behind her ear, she opens her eyes to look into his and he kisses her, too: _ I’m as much yours as I’m his, you know. _

She smiles against his lips: _ I know. _

He pulls away and grins back at her.

“Another round?” Quentin asks. He tucks his hair behind his ears and eagerly leans forward with his elbows planted on the bar. 

“God yes,” Margo says, laughing and snatching up the cocktail list. “I need my boys loose before I fuck their brains out tonight.” He’s so happy, thinks Margo. Glancing up from the menu, she devours the way his face looks in quarter-profile: glowing under the neons, his eyes twinkling, confidently flagging down the moustached bartender. 

After a second, she realizes that Eliot is doing the same thing, gazing at Quentin with a half-smile on his face. Tearing his eyes away, Eliot shoots her a look, _L__ook at our boy, huh?_, and volleys back: “Oh yeah? Is there a new bucket-list item on the table?”

“Goodness yes,” Margo nods shrewdly, tapping a finger on her chin. “But it’s going to be absolutely disgusting.”

“Oh?” Eliot plucks the menu from her hands and glances over it. “Do tell—also, is anyone in the mood for food later, or are we just getting stupid drunk?”

“I could do food,” Quentin nods.

—“completely nauseating,” Margo continues. “Imagine: a little bit of missionary, maybe some tongue-kissing, with a side of cuddling.”

“I don’t have the stomach for it,” says Eliot. “I’m out,” Quentin agrees at the same time, dodging Margo’s smack as she throws her head back and laughs. Quentin’s hand still rests warmly on her back; Eliot’s on her shoulder. All at once, Margo feels safe, and warm, and _ seen_; and just a little bit closer to believing she deserves something good. 

_ Maybe love isn’t such a dirty word after all._

* * *

**FIN.**

* * *


End file.
